


Stay

by aizercul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aizercul/pseuds/aizercul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, torn over the death of his best friend, contemplates ending his life. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

The phone rang, echoing shrilly in the flat.  
John Watson did not answer it. He was concentrating every neuron in his brain at the plastic bottle in his hands. So small, yet so… powerful. Permanent.  
The pills rattled in the container, sounding quite harmless. Chemistry in a bottle.  
John held it up to the lamp, the orange plastic dulling the light. An elegant weapon, really. He only needed to swallow.  
The phone rang again. It could belch the national anthem for all he cared. The outside world would not interfere with this decision.  
To live, or to die?  
As he had done in combat, John assessed the so called “pros and cons” of the situation.  
Pros: a release. An escape. Death was better than solitude. Death was better than visiting his grave every other day, hearing the flat keys jingle eerily in his pocket.  
Cons: there was no going back.  
John’s head started to pound. His hand grew sweaty as he clutched the bottle, the little white pills that would determine his fate.  
So small…  
The fact of the matter was that John Watson did not want to be alone. He could not deal with the gaping absence of his best friend in his life. He could not go on through the day, trying to constantly catch his breath. He was tired of gasping for air. John Watson wanted to drown.  
And what a nice death it would be. A relief from looking in the mirror every morning and seeing empty eyes staring back. A relief from empty condolences and an empty flat. Perhaps death would fill that hole in his being that Sherlock Holmes had carved with a jagged knife.  
His phone buzzed in his pocket against his thigh. But John was numb. Numb and cold and already dead. His flesh and bones had already given up—they screamed to rest.  
John’s mind was, however, on fire.  
A million different scenarios played out in his head. Who would find him? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? What would they say? “A damn shame.” Who would attend his funeral? His sister? Sarah?  
Did it matter, though, in the end? Did it matter what happened after the fact, after the moment when his brain ceased to think and his heart ceased to beat? It wasn’t like John would be watching the happenings from a fluffy white cloud. No, he had lost all faith in faith. John Watson was going to cease to be and that was that.  
Hands shaking, John opened the bottle. The pills slid unto his open palm, almost innocently and shyly. White. Harmless, really, in small doses.  
His phone buzzed once. A text. John Watson hadn’t received a text in exactly three years. His hand froze, still hovering above his mouth, slightly tilted.  
Three years.  
The pills fell to the floor, the bottle rolling under the armchair as John scrambled to pull his phone out of his pocket. His hands seized up as he read the message, moments before letting the phone slide slowly out of the grasp of his fingertips.  
One word.  
One, beautiful word.  
“Stay, -SH”


End file.
